There is a wonder in reading Braille that the sighted will never know: to touch words and have them touch you back.
Jim Fiebig
ePub
A4Prologue
L
ondon, 1828Dear Tom,
This is my Private Journal— how dare you spy on me and presume to write in it! You may be ten years old, but so am I, and I would never be so rude.
Dear Victoria,
You left the notebook under a bench in your garden where anyone could find it. I live right next door, and from my window, I happened to see you hide it. I didn't come any closer, I promise. Your bonnet hid your face, so I didn't see you. My mother always says my curiosity will land me in trouble, and here it has. I do not know much about music (which you seem quite fond of from what you wrote about your lessons) but I am certain we could find something in common. My mother is the earl's cook, and I have no father or brothers or sisters. I'm allowed to be tutored sometimes with the earl's son. Think of me writing to you as a way I can practice my lessons. Can't we be friends?
Dear Tom,
I've never had a boy for a friend. I suppose writing to you can cause no harm. But I can never meet with you. You would get into trouble if the earl discovered that his kitchen boy presumed upon the neighbors. And my father would take my journal away if he thought I was consorting with a servant. He says we always have to associate with people above us, but since we're below them in status, why would they want to associate with us? It's all so very confusing. My father is a banker who invests the money of wealthy people. Even the earl is one of his clients. I have a mother and two sisters named Louisa and Meriel. Louisa is two years younger than I, and she has very red hair that my mother says is unfashionable, but which I think is uncommonly pretty. Meriel is four years younger than I, and her hair is golden ringlets. My hair is just this pale yellow color that doesn't really look like much of anything.
Dear Victoria,
Don't worry about your hair— it isn't important what a girl looks like. It's what she talks about that matters. Someday I'll convince you to meet me so we can have a real discussion. You're lucky to have sisters. You always have someone to play with. What do you do all day? I help my mother in the kitchen but I can play outside as much as I want. I have a secret hiding place in the attic. It's where I keep all of my most important things, like special rocks from the garden and paper no one wants because only one side is used. I like to hide in there where no one can find me and think about important things, like sailing to India or to one of those islands by the colonies. I'm telling you things I've never told anyone. See, you can trust me.
Dear Tom,
I would never be brave enough to go on a long, dangerous voyage to India. But I'm glad you have so much time to think. Little girls have not so much freedom. My father hired a governess so that I can be properly educated like a lady, but I think my sisters like that better than I do. At least Louisa does. French is very hard (and why do we need it if we just finished a war with them not so long ago?). Mathematics make my head spin. Meriel is lucky. She is still allowed to play much of the day. Though thankfully music and needlework are part of my lessons. I also have to learn all about rank, like earls and dukes, and who goes into the dining room first, and who escorts whom. Really, why do I need to know all about the nobility if they won't invite us anywhere? Mama says we have to be prepared, because she wants to make sure my sisters and I marry the right men. Doesn't falling in love make a person the right man? I like that you have a secret place to hide. I do, too. I call it Willow Pond, although that is not its real name. But I can't tell you where it is right now. It's a secret.
o O o
1829
Dear Victoria,
Your tears are getting the notebook all wet and dirty— don't cry! I keep telling you to explain to your mother why you don't like to dance. She'll understand and make that nasty governess stop. No one should have to dance. But if you need someone to talk to, I could meet you at Willow Pond. I know you only go there with your sisters. You always go on and on about that place being magical, but it's a corner of your garden, Victoria. Why won't you share it with me, too?
Dear Tom,
I'm not like my sisters. I'm not like any other girls, and there are days my father won't look at me because of it. I don't like the things ladies are supposed to like, like babies and husbands and dresses. I want to play the piano all day. I hear songs in my head that no one has created yet. I think of designs for my needlework because the pictures intrigue me, not because needlework is what a Lady Should Do.
o O o
1830
Dear Tom,
You've returned from the country! It was such a long three months. You have such an unusual situation— your mother traveling with an earl. Tell me everything you did, and don't leave anything out— unless it involves the inside of a frog. You talk about that too much, and I don't care if you call it scientific research. I may not like the thought of traveling myself, but when you tell me stories, I can imagine it all and live through your eyes.
Dear Victoria,
Don't listen to your father. Men like ladies who think. My mother reads the newspaper and thinks a great deal. We have long conversations, but then I'm her only child. She says she appreciates my opinions. Have you tried talking to your parents? If they're worried about who you'll marry, tell them I will marry you. You don't think about balls and dresses like some silly girls do.
Dear Tom,
When you marry, I hope you find a lovely woman. But she can't be me, because my father would never allow it. That is truly sad, because you understand me more than any person in my life, except my sisters. So let us think of the Perfect Wife for you. She would have to be a grand adventuress, of course, and not mind riding on elephants in India. You'll probably earn your fortune there and come back as quite the wealthy gentleman. (Don't scoff! I know you care little for the nobility, but perhaps the gentry will make room for a fine man such as you will become someday.) The Perfect Wife would be very brave, of course, and able to speak passionately about what she believes in. She'll read the newspaper, and know about Parliament and wars and famous men.
o O o
1832
Dear Tom,
My sisters are very worried about me, but I am not like them. I will be content to be our parents' companion as they age. I love nothing better than to be at home with my music and my needlework. You know I hate to dance— what man would want a wife who can't dance?
Father is angry again. Only to you can I complain how unfairly he always focuses on me. He punished me again by locking the door to the music room. Why won't he tell us what he's angry at? We can never question him. I'm worried that Mama knows what it is. Yet certainly she would not keep something important from us.
o O o
1834
Dearest Tom, my secret friend,
Why haven't you written to me? It has been months, and I know the earl is in town, so you must be there somewhere. I heard that the countess died, and that must be a terrible strain on the household. I'm so sorry. Surely your mother was able to keep her position. Yet— you're almost a man now at sixteen. Did you feel the need to look for work? Wouldn't the earl keep you in his household? Or have I offended you? I look back over the past year's correspondence, and perhaps I asked for too much pity as I made a fool of myself at the dinners my parents insisted we attend. They have friends among our own class, wealthy people who believe they're the equal of any member of the ton. But I sit there like a silly lump, with nothing to say, getting names wrong whenever I speak. Oh Tom, why is it so easy to tell you everything?
I even promise to finally meet you in person, if only you'll keep writing to me. I miss you.
o O o
Ten years later…
Dear Tom,
I pray that you're still next door, that by some miracle after all this time you'll come looking for our Journal. My father is dead, and the circumstances of his death would shock even you. My sisters have left to try to make their way in the world and help Mama and me. But the small amount of money they send home is not enough, Tom. Even as I write this, I am listing what item I'll next sell to feed us. My mother and I will be on the streets in only two months' time. I'm so desperate. Oh Tom, will you marry me?
